Emotions without Memories
by Azure Gryphon
Summary: Voldemort's memories roiled within his mind. Whispered that this man was his slave, branded with his mark. That this man belonged to him- Harry Potter.
1. Chapter 1 Harry's Dream

Written Sept. 7 & 8, 2011

_Disclaimer:__ This is fan -fiction. That means I possibly own the plot and nothing else. I do not own Harry and Co. _

Chapter One: Harry's Dream

_The distant sounds of battle were muffled in the room with peeling wall paper. The flickering oil lamp cast writhing shadows across the wall and spell light from the battle was occasionally visible though the only window not boarded over. _

_The Dark Lord Voldemort stood in the gloomy squalor ignoring the ragged form in the darkest corner. His thoughts were on much more important things than a single wretched man. His very soul was in danger. His pale, spidery fingers rolled his wand as he brooded over the room in the castle, surely still a secret. After all it had taken years for him to find it, and Dumbledore's puppet was only lucky. The boy had come far; He would give the boy that, farther than his wildest imaginings had allowed. But his wildest imaginings had not predicted his spell rebounding nearly sixteen years ago, or his ten year stint as a bodiless wraith. Surely the boy would not have searched as diligently, was not cunning enough, not clever enough… And yet the boy had come too far…_

"_My Lord," Malfoy's voice, desperate and cracked interrupted him. He turned: The beaten form of the once arrogant pureblood pleasantly greeted his snake like eyes. Or the sight would have been pleasant but for thoughts of Potter. "My Lord… please… my son…"_

"_If your son is dead, Lucius, it is not my fault. He did not come and join me, like the rest of the Slytherins. Perhaps he decided to befriend Harry Potter?" _

"_No - never," whispered Malfoy, fear for his son evident in the desperate swiftness of the words._

"_You must hope not."_

"_Aren't - aren't you afraid, my Lord, that Potter might die at another hand but yours?" asked Malfoy, his voice shaking. "Wouldn't it be… forgive me… more prudent to call off this battle, enter the castle, and seek him y-yourself?"_

"_Do not pretend, Lucius. You wish the battle to cease so that you can discover what has happened to your son. And I do not need to seek Potter. Before the night is out, Potter will come to find me."_

_Voldemort dropped his gaze once more to the wand in his fingers. It troubled him… and those things that troubled Lord Voldemort needed to be rearranged…_

"_Go and fetch Snape."_

"_Snape, m-my Lord?"_

"_Snape. Now. I need him. There is a- service - I require from him. Go."_

_Frightened, stumbling a little through the gloom, Lucius left the room. Voldemort continued to stand there, twirling the wand between his fingers, staring at it. A shift to look at Nagini brought the faint clink of glass to his ears. He would use the contents of those potion vials tonight, for this… _

"_It is the only way, Nagini," he whispered to the great, thick snake. She twisted gracefully within the enchanted, protected space he had made for her, a starry, transparent sphere somewhere between glittering cage and tank. She had no words of reproach for him, but she seldom did. _

_He had no desire to kill Snape, save that the Elder wand must be his. The man was more intelligent than many of his other servants, more talented, and had proven himself more loyal and trustworthy than any other; it would be a pity to kill him. Such a waste…_

_His thoughts turned from Snape briefly to the battle. He would join the fray himself soon, he must be patient. He would offer them time first, present them perhaps an hour as mercy, perhaps say that they might collect the dead and heal the injured… Yes, that appealed to him. Let them gather their forces, gather the entire resistance together. Then he would attack himself, and strike the entire resistance down. Individually they meant little to him now and soon he would have true mastery of the elder wand as well. What meant little now, would mean nothing later, and they would be swept away like chaff in the wind. Every man, woman and child that dared to defy him would soon, so soon face his wrath; he need only wait a little longer. Need only to wait for Snape, then he would give the resistance an hour to send Potter._

"Wait for Snape…" Harry mumbled… "For Snape." He blinked blearily around at the red curtains and bedspreads and it took him a moment to remember that he was in his bed Gryffindor tower. Remember that there would be no more waiting on Snape. Snape was dead, killed by Nagini at Voldemort's direction. Something from his dream nagged at him, but it was slipping away like morning mist. "What was it?" He frowned, it was important, Snape… His body was still out there, that was important. But there was something else, something about glass. Glass clinking? Vials clinking- potions! Voldemort had somehow dosed Snape with potions. Why would Voldemort have given Snape potions before killing him? Harry supposed, rubbing sleep dust from his eyes and reaching for his glasses, that for all he knew there could be a million and one dark things that could be done to a body after it was dead. But as far as Harry knew for sure, potions were for the living. Could Voldemort have meant for Snape to live? Make Snape think he was going to die, but really only make him seem like he died?

Harry was horrified. What if Snape was alive, but dosed with Draught of Living Death or some such? Left lying in a pool of his own blood? He thrashed off his covers and fell on the floor. His temporary loss of breath knocked some sense into him. He couldn't just go raring off, if he came back with Snape, they might assume Snape was just a Death Eater and let him die, or maybe heal Snape, give him some farce of a trial and haul him off to Azkaban. Harry just lay still for a moment; he needed some sort of plan. Harry still didn't want to be sucked into some triumphant, grieving crowd; so he couldn't be seen. Harry pushed himself of the floor, pulled back on his invisibility cloak. Alright he wouldn't be seen. What next… Tell someone where he was going, no reason to scare his friends by leaving an empty bed.

He raised his wand, only to stare at the elder wand still in his hand along with his holly and Malfoy's hawthorn. Perhaps it would be best to use the more powerful wand to make sure the message Patronus worked? He had never learned exactly how the spell was meant to be cast for speaking, but intent and power should go a long way to making it work. He hesitated no longer, Snape could be dying if he was indeed still alive at all, but there was no more time to plan. Harry cast his Patronus with the elder wand as he walked down the spiral staircase.

The moment the silver stag stood before him, brighter than ever before but somehow blurred, he spoke, "Hermione, Snape may still live, I am going to see. Find a place where he may be kept safe, should he be alive. Ask Madame Pomfrey to stand by for farther word. Do not allow her to tell the Aurors. He must not be taken." He noticed vaguely, as he stepped out the Portrait hole and the stag bounded away, that the Fat Lady had still not returned. Perhaps it was not too much later, perhaps not too much time had passed between Nagini's bite, Voldemort's attack on the castle inhabitants. Maybe Harry's nap would not be the reason Snape was dead, if not too much time had passed.

He could only hope that Snape's death would not be on his hands.


	2. Chapter 2 Healer's Oaths

_Written Sept. 8, 2011_

Disclaimer: This is fan-fiction. That means I possibly own the plot and the character interactions, and not much else. That means I do not own Harry and Co. I am not making any money from this.

Chapter Two: Healer's Oaths

Harry stumbled out of the hospital bed towards the toilet. After he dealt with his bladder and washed up he looked up at the mirror.

A sudden flash of fear and deep anger swept over him, and he jumped backwards in terror. Heart pounding wildly in his chest, he eased himself off the floor. Where was the danger? He was in the hospital bathroom, there was no one else here. What was it that had terrified him so? His reflection? Again he looked in the mirror to meet his own green gaze, his messy hair and fear paled skin. There was nothing there to cause him fear, and anger?

Harry decided to put it out of his mind. Snape was more important now than what probably was only some random nightmare leftovers.

Harry padded softly back into the darkened hospital wing proper. There, beyond the doorway to the isolation room was where Snape's body lay. Earlier that day, or was it the previous day… He had levitated Snape's body, concealed under his invisibility cloak into the Hospital wing where Madame Pomfrey waited. She had instructed Harry to bring Snape into the isolation room and then had kicked him out. She seemed drained when she came back out a half hour later.

"_Mr. Potter."  
><em>_Harry looked up from his sleep deprived daze. "Yes, Madame?"  
><em>"_You are vouching for Severus, correct?" She asked as she settled into a chair near him.  
><em>"_Yes Madame Pomfrey, I am."  
><em>"_Then it is only right I reveal his condition to you, now that you are his guardian."  
><em>"_His guardian, Madame?"  
><em>"_As a Healer, Mr. Potter, I have taken several vows-among them was one on patients' confidentiality. I may release information only to those whom the patient has given me permission to or to my patients' guardians. As you have taken up a role of Snape's protector, have you not?" She paused for a moment and looked sharply at him.  
><em>

_Harry blinked, "Er, yes, I have."  
><em>"_Then I can tell you his condition." She finished.  
><em>"_Severus is indeed alive, and is stabilized- he will not die due to slow bleeding out now. He had already been dosed with an anti-venom which made my task somewhat easier." She looked Harry straight in the eyes, "Did you dose him, Mr. Potter?"  
><em>"_No, Madame Pomfrey, I have not done anything to him but bring him here."  
><em>"_Do you know who did?"  
><em>"_I think Voldemort did."  
><em>_She stiffened, "It would be best not to mention that to any Ministry wizards. If you believe that Severus is indeed on our side, then that would only cast doubt on him."  
><em>_Harry nodded, even as tired as he was that made good sense. _

_She continued, "He is however still under the Draught of Living Death and will remain so until I can heal him more completely. I must take a break Mr. Potter. Even Healers such as I will make mistakes when drained and this school year has been hectic. Death Eaters as teachers, you know. And then today's battle. I had only just gotten the injured healed enough for travel to St. Mungo's and other hospitals when Ms. Granger brought me your message." _

_She looked at him. "I should really check you as well, how are you feeling? Be honest now."  
><em>_Harry took stock of himself. "Mostly just tired and bruised I think, nothing really hurts, just rather sore."_

"_Then you can wait until tomorrow for a check up." She seemed relieved. Harry could only guess at how tired she too must be, if she was delaying checking him over.  
><em>"_You should sleep here by the doorway, rather than your usual bed, to watch his room better, though if you wish to move your bed here that would be fine." She swayed slightly, "I must go to bed myself."  
><em>"_Sleep well, Madame Pomfrey." Harry called softly to her as she left the ward, she raised a hand briefly to acknowledge it._

_Harry settled himself on the sheets and conked out almost immediately. _

He felt much less tired now that he had slept, much less numb. It would be time to mourn soon. Fred, Remus, Tonks- all those dead at the hands of the Death Eaters and Voldemort's other followers, and Dumbledore's last betrayal too.

Now that he knew he was not going to die, at least not yet, that stung his heart deeply, almost another death, such was its weight. That here, in the only place he was welcomed, where there was really room for his strangeness, at Hogwarts, that the one to first welcome him here would be among those plotting his death. Harry's grief overflowed and he turned to muffle his tears against his pillow. So many dead and yet he had lived again. He would have to be strong for the living, when he emerged into public view again. He would not really be allowed to grieve for the many this time, not like he grieved for Dumbledore. The whole of Wizarding Britain had grieved with him then, and could forgive him that weakness. But now, when no one knew who he grieved for, it would not be born. They needed someone now to be strong and lead them past their grief.

At least they would not expect him to be joyful. Triumphant, in his victory, but they would at least allow him to be solemn while they wept for the dead.

So it was best that he grieved alone, now. He would be stronger for it when he must reveal himself. And he must be stronger; they would desire to know how he had done it, would pick at his sores, would metaphorically rip open him open and examine his innards, his closest kept secrets if he let them have an inch. He must prepare himself for interrogation.

_(Anyone think Madame Pomfrey was a Slytherin when she went to Hogwarts?)_

_Posted 9/18/11_


	3. Chapter 3

Harry turned over; clean sheets whispering crisply into the indeterminate night hours between midnight and dawn. Sleep eluded him- his nap right after killing Voldemort was keeping him up now, his mind was active despite his tired body.

Perhaps he could ponder on peaceful things while he awaited sleep?

Harry was on the verge of dozing when his thoughts turned towards the morning. Why had he panicked when he saw himself in the mirror?

Ye gahds great and small, that had been weird, even for him.

Foreign, even. Voldemort's emotions foreign.

This thought roused him a little. Still, his scar had not given even the slightest twinge, neither had he felt even a little distant from his own surroundings. The second was not a certain indicator but corresponding with the emotions that strong from mental connections to his enemy in the past was a sensation of his mind being pulled away from his own body somewhat, towards Voldemort's location.

He blinked into the darkness over his bed in the Hospital Wing, wondering when Snape would wake, when reporters would manage to corner him, when Kingsley and the Order would want a briefing on what had actually happened so they could make a statement for the Ministry to publish about why Voldemort would actually stay dead this time and he sighed, rolled over and tried to fall asleep again.

* * *

><p><em>So, my first new drabble (or rather a bit over a double drabble, being 228 words as this is) since my 2015 new years resolution. Hope that this is an acceptable continuation for this story I have ignored for so long.<em>

I know how I'd like the beginning and the falling action to go but have nothing much for the rising action, climax or resolution, which is why I have struggled with it for so long. Course at the time I wrote this up I didn't think about that, just wanted to start posting things.

2/16/15


	4. An Exchange of Souls

Harry pushed back from his desk, leaned back in his chair, and put his feet up on his desk with a thump, thump as the heels of his boots clunked against the dark wood. A twitch of his fingers brought his drink floating over from the counter behind him. It settled cold and wet with condensation in his hand and he swirled it, ice clinking against the edges. He raked a hand through his hair, felt the grease from days of stress, work, too little sleep, and too little time for hygiene.

Gods, things had been going so well. But now Snape was on to him. He didn't regret saving the man's life. He was truly valuable to reformatting Hogwarts as a school just as Lucius had been useful in getting laws changed.

It was astonishing just how many Death Eaters had been well chosen. They hadn't been meant, at least originally, for terrorism. They had been chosen to fix things that were wrong with the Wizarding World. Or at least the British part of it. Other countries were better or worse. But for now that was not his concern.

A flick of his fingers sent the drained glass back to its coaster on the counter. How could he keep dear Sssseverus out of his hair? The man was so much more practical than Dumbledore. Dumbledore might be willing to see the radical turn around from monstrous terrorist to school tutor and political activist, from Voldemort to Harry Potter, but what of Snape?

He would likely get to the bottom of the matter, that Voldemort's soul, whole for the first time since 1943, dwelt in- possessed – Harry Potter's body and had since the day of his death on May the 2nd of 1998. Snape probably would probe no deeper than that, would not care to know that Potter's mind had remained in control, that having Voldemort's soul had only brought about his sudden competence in things he had done poorly in before.

His professors and friends had bought the idea that the Horcrux within him had been suppressing his mental and magical faculties, that when Voldemort had died it was like a cold, clean wind had blown through his mind, expelling the weight of the Horcurx that had existed for so long unbeknownst to him, clinging like sticking, stinking ashes. The idea that his mind had finally been able to develop the potential that his parents had passed down to him.

Harry had battled with the strange, disconnected emotions, utterly baffled as to where they might have come from. Where his new talents for working with people had come from, his inclination to use the sane Death Eaters, sentencing them to the completely revolutionary idea of community service (or revolutionary for the British Wizarding World.)

It had taken more than a year after Voldemort's Second Fall for a memory to surface. Harry finally remembered the dream that had prompted him so suddenly to see if Snape were still alive. And the memories started drifting in after that like the beginning of a gentle snow fall, just one and two, a few, and then dozens spreading out over the next three years. The memories were still incomplete. Harry didn't think they would ever be more than a highlights list of Voldemort's life, moments of high emotion or truly critical instances.

The memories had highlighted moments in Voldemort's life, where, like Harry after Voldemort's death, the boy, the teen, and the man had struggled with foreign emotions. Emotions that had prompted him to become the creature he was before his death, less than human. The bitter resentment towards Muggles had been born fully realized in young Thomas Marvolo Riddle, before he ever knew what a Muggle was, before he realized what anger, what hatred was or what it looked like. The incredible feeling of trust, of joy, the fear of disappointing the man before him that had filled young Tom the first time that he had met Professor Dumbledore, that had led him to incautiously expose his abilities, his behavior, somehow expecting acceptance rather than rebuke.

Harry had gagged and vomited in horror, in disgust, the night that he had began to guess what it meant. It had come together the way things always had for Harry. The bits and pieces of disparate information had suddenly coalesced into a single moment of blinding, illuminating insight. Harry had emotions that were not his because his soul had been replaced. Voldemort's soul and its reactions in his mind had come to him intact upon the man's death. Tom Riddle had emotions that were not his, could not be his because he had not the chance to form emotions about the brand new things that when presented to him he reacted too as though he had known them for years.

Harry had Voldemort's soul.

Where did Harry's soul go?

Voldemort had set up no safeties for his true, final death, had done nothing to shunt his soul into Potter's body.

It had happened because something had caused an absence, a void that had caught the last shard of Voldemort at his death: the absence of Harry's soul, cast from his body.

The source of that draw that had pulled in the last tattered shade… A body - the body - that had originally housed the soul that had belonged to Voldemort.

And his new soul, inherited from Voldemort fit Harry's shape so well that Dumbledore could not recognize Voldemort's soul at the crossroads, the train station, because it was Harry's. Voldemort's soul had always been Harry.

Just like Lockhart acted something like himself, still had certain skills after being Obliviated, Harry's soul had forced certain behaviors and actions on the young Tom Riddle.

The second killing curse that had not killed Harry, had not sent his soul into death, but instead into the past.

Harry's body and mind had not died because Harry's healthy, whole soul had been drawing the fragments from the destroyed Horcrux into his body all of his life, like injured children to their parent. Harry had continued after the AK because he essentially had a new battery to run on after the killing curse had blasted his old one out. His grief and regrets and mental tortures over the years of his childhood and teenage years had been necessary to heal the soul that he had been unknowingly gathering, sheltering, nurturing, and had healed it well enough that Harry hadn't even really noticed when his own soul had been torn away.

Harry had come a long way to accepting what he was since that bitter night four years ago. It was now 2005, Harry was twenty-five; he tutored and advised lower year students for a modest salary and managed and moderated magically bound death eaters on community service sentences.

Harry had accepted that while he may have shared a soul with Voldemort, he had not shared a mind with him, not really. Voldemort may have had some strange reactions to things that Harry's soul remembered but Voldemort had been the one to decide how he would react to them, not Harry. Harry thanked God frequently for Hermione, Neville, and Luna. He had gone to them in tears that night (he had gone to Hermione and she had been meeting with the other two when he had confessed. He had never bothered to ask why back then. He was two caught up in the horrors of his brainwave to care, drowning as he was in shame, self-hate, and guilt.)

Harry blinked as his gaze caught the clock. How many hours did he have left before Snape confronted him? How many hours did he have to come up with a way to live?

He had come a long way but the guilt still clawed at him sometimes, he acknowledged as he suppressed the urge to simply not do anything. To let Snape be his judge, jury and executioner. Instead he should alert Hermione and get her help. He did not need to do things alone anymore and he would not be able to harm Snape now. The curious stew of Harry's issues, Voldemort's memories, Harry's guilt over the memories, the actions left Harry in a semi-protective, extremely wary stance towards Snape. His guilt over the memories of torturing the man, his gratefulness to Snape for protecting him all these years, for hating that Dumbledore had set him up to die, and so many other conflicting memories and emotions left his encounters with the man stunted, although he suspected that from the outside it might seem like a normal reaction.

A tapping on his window called his attention to the window and the owl that awaited him. He let the animal in. Harry had been force to select a new owl within the same year that Hedwig had died. Harry had selected a diurnal owl this time, a Northern Hawk Owl he had named Holon. While he had not formed a close emotional bond as quickly as he had with Hedwig, he had been directed to books the day of his purchase that instructed how one might make a proper post owl bond. Emotions would form at a natural pace but the bird would always know when Harry wanted to send a letter and as a well trained post owl, Holon would come flying in.

He scratched the bird and offered it a treat and water at his perch. The bird accepted gravely, every bit as dignified as Hedwig had been. Harry was incredibly grateful that he had not picked out another snowy as his new owl. Holon's appearance was quite different and even some similarities in personality did not bring Harry back to his grief like an owl more similar in appearance would have.

Harry returned to his desk to scratch out a brief note and find the little mail canister harness that would fit along the owl's back without fouling his flights or landings like a letter tied to the leg would. He sent his owl off into the fading afternoon light and stared out over the forest and the edge of the lake he could see form his office. What would he do to prepare for this? He didn't want to hide, didn't want to run. Perhaps he should take a nap until a response came back? A small dose of drowsy potion to help his nerves settle and he would still wake up easily at any disturbance.

He turned away from the sunny day outside (leaving the window open) and moved deeper into the gloominess of his bedroom and flopped onto the bed fully dressed. A whisper opened his medicine cabinet in his bathroom and brought the little potion vial to him. (Individual doses were very useful when he couldn't be bothered to measure them out.) He swallowed the sour liquid, cast a mouth freshening charm, and forced his thoughts onto a lighter track where they drifted until sleep settled over him like a dove on her nest.

_Written 3/27/15. Word count 1,838._

_Would love to hear thoughts on this, if anyone is still reading it._


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